


the longest shadows ever cast

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Violence, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 13:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: "It's like God.""You're stoned.""So are you."





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by tumblr user @leclercq's work!! thank you so much for all your writing!
> 
> enjoy! xoxo

“It's like God,” Mat says and breathes out a cloud of smoke that for a moment makes him a ghost. 

The air is cut with bitter herbal stink. Flavored with it, passing drugged and slow over Hugo's palate. He draws it in, pulls it in and lets it out again and feels the edges of his skin expanding out. 

“You're stoned,” Hugo says, and the words come out a little slower than he thinks they will. 

Mat's grin fades in through the smoke. Teeth gleaming, off-white. 

“So are you.”

\--

There's something playing on the TV across the room. Loud, animated and colorful. Hugo watches the figures move, voices echoing through the haze.

There had been more people at some point but now there aren't. 

Porter falls into the couch next to him and they fit together like they'd been born for each other. He's jittering in place, pupils dark and big, but his jaw is almost slack when Hugo presses a lazy thumb to the hinge. 

He crawls into Hugo's arms with a pleased animal whimper. Shakes his way through the trip there, trembling like a leaf and laughing against Hugo's throat and it's perfect because how could it be any other way. 

Hugo watches the figures on the screen. Drags his fingers down the bone ridge of Porter's spine.

\--

Hugo slams Porter into the bricks and Porter snarls back and there's blood on his mouth. In his teeth. Shining like cherries on his bruise-swollen lips.

It's not his own. 

He looks so young for a moment. Young and dirty and defiant with it. Rendered jagged by the stark halogen streetlights. 

Hugo kisses him anyway. Bites down ruthlessly on a lip that must still burn. Porter moans in answer, deep and pleased and fierce. 

“Stupid,” he mumbles against Porter's mouth and presses back in to conquer it again. The foreign blood is pennies in his mouth. Porter's hands are tight around his shoulders, fingers tangling in Hugo's jacket. 

“You love it,” Porter whispers back when he lets up to breathe. Panting for air and it all smells like them and like blood. 

“I do,” Hugo murmurs, desperate, “I do, I do-,”

\--

Porter wraps himself around Mat like he’s air and Porter is drowning. Like Mat is the only oasis in the desert, like he’s safety in the lion’s den, and Hugo watches it and laughs.

Everything is running together a little bit, some melody is threading through the room and he doesn’t remember putting on music but someone could have. Or he’s dreaming it, dreamlike as this moment is. Mat is laughing and Porter’s hands are in his hair, tugging at his shirt. 

Hugo watches them. Smiles and smiles and hums along to the music.

\--

The wine is cheap but Hugo doesn't have his fake on him and it tastes better lifted anyway.

It’s easy, stupidly easy. Tucking the bottle into his jacket pocket when the cashier is looking at his phone, turning away from the security cameras. It’s always easy. Something about his face that makes him look trustworthy and Hugo will trade on it until it runs out because that’s just the way of things. 

He grins at the cashier on the way out and the cashier grins back, small and surprised. 

Porter wrestles the cork out later and his mouth is so beautiful stained purple. He spills a tipsy glass over Hugo and follows the sour trails with kisses that burn. 

Hugo watches the ceiling spin and whispers something that could be Porter’s name or could be a prayer.

\--

They’re going to Mat's place because they'd run out of gauze a month ago and hadn't bothered to lift any more. Mat will have something, maybe.

He doesn't care. 

It hurts, but it always does. His hand, from the first punch or the one after that or the one after that. His ribs, and he'll have a bruise like a bootprint tomorrow. He laughs. 

Porter's arm around him is too tight. The doorway is a wash of yellow light and Mat is haloed in it. He's watching them and he's a virginal Mary for a moment. Calm, lit up entirely holy. Hugo grits his teeth through the adrenaline and smiles. 

“Fucking assholes,” Mat sighs at last and steps aside and he's no messiah anymore but Hugo thinks he sees something like grace lighting up the inside of his mouth when he yawns. “First aid kit is under the bathroom sink.”

\--

Through the painkiller haze Hugo watches Mat watch him.

He doesn't know what it is but he'd taken the pill handed to him and it's definitely not aspirin. Everything is static, bad reception. Mat licks his lips. 

“You were holy,” Hugo tells him and Mat grins.

\--

Hugo wakes and he knows something is wrong because the bed around him is cold and empty the way it never should be. He sits up slow and dreamlike and he knows where Porter is before he’s even completed the motion.

Porter looks so small, tucked into the corner under their grimy windows. 

“Porter,” Hugo whispers and Porter lifts his head. His eyes are bloodshot but he looks calm. He could have been there a minute or an hour. Maybe all night. It’s not an unfamiliar dance. 

“Nightmares,” Porter croaks back. 

“Come here.” 

Porter goes, slow, unfurling from the corner in a play of shadow camouflage and bleached skin. Slow like he’s a wild animal and Hugo is the only hand he’ll heel for. For a moment his head tilts back and he’s ruined and regal with it, the shadows of his cheeks and the awful shine of his eyes and Hugo’s breath catches. 

He crawls to Hugo across their sheets and falls into his arms. They fit, they fit perfectly, they always have. Even as half-shadowed abstractions. 

“Bébé,” Hugo murmurs and the words are rust on his tongue but with them Porter melts into him and is human again.

\--

Mat is only soft in his sleep.

Hugo leans over the back of the couch and watches his eyes flicker under his eyelids. Fevered, manic movement. He’s dreaming but his body is so still and Hugo reaches out and covers the lavender bruises under one eye with a thumb. 

He looks so young. Lit by mid-morning sun through the living room window, fiery and glorious, he’s some kind of ancient figure. The prologue of a tragedy, something with hubris and divine ordination. 

Mat wakes under his hands. A slow hand coming up to grasp Hugo’s wrist, loose and gentle. Dark eyes slitting open, glittering. So soft still, in waking. 

Hugo leans further over the back of the couch and presses his mouth to Mat’s. 

It’s a moment, sweet and preserved in honey sunlight. 

Mat’s smiling when Hugo opens his eyes.


End file.
